


Heaven Talks, But Not to Me

by Swordy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, SPN J2 Secret Santa, Swan Song, Vessel Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean says yes to Michael and together they avert the apocalypse. Now he and Sam have got the opportunity to lead normal lives, but Dean’s reluctant to let Michael go...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Talks, But Not to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majestic_duck (majesticduxk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



> Fic written for majestic_duxk for the spn_j2_xmas exchange at LJ. She wanted brotherly angels and I'm sorry that this may only loosely address your prompts, hon, but if it's any consolation, this hardened gen writer wrote Wincest for you! :) I also must say a HUGE thank you to my wonderful, wonderful beta thruterryseyes, who never batted an eyelid when, barely a day ago I emailed her going 'arghhhh, can you look over this for me please? BTW, it's got to be posted by Christmas!' Not only did she wave her magic wand over it, she also did art. Seriously, hon, you're awesome. Title taken from 'Release' by Imagine Dragons because IMAGINE DRAGONS.

Dean Winchester had never had a best friend.

It wasn’t that he lacked the necessary social skills to make and maintain a mutually beneficial relationship with someone, because Dean had all the required traits in spades, but his life just wasn’t conducive to it. He’d accepted it years ago and taken much less time to make his peace with the idea than Sam, who railed against the loss of something he’d never had with typical drama and epic amounts of sulking.

As a teenager, Dean knew they would never live in one place long enough to have or be anything other than a casual acquaintance to other people his age. The sheer insanity of their lives and their dad’s relentless pursuit of the demon that killed their mom meant he had nothing in _common_ with people his age either. It didn’t bother him at all, despite Sam’s repeated protestations that he was lying.

Everything changed when Michael came into his life.

Obviously he was completely resistant at first. After all, no one aside from the fervently religious would _willingly_ let a celestial being take over their body, even if it meant stopping the apocalypse. They looked for alternative solutions, they _did_ , but ultimately it was the only game in town. 

Part of him felt hypocritical saying yes. When it was clear both him and Sam were expected to be vessels for the ultimate grudge match, they made a pact that they would both say no and nothing anyone could say or do would change that decision. 

Then Lucifer fucked everything up by convincing Adam, the half-brother they never even knew about, to be his vessel. Things were rapidly spiralling out of control – even Castiel, who’d been a fully paid up member of Team Free Will up until this point, was now in favour of Dean saying yes. There was still Sam though. Sam, whose feelings were completely clear on the matter, whose heart was broken at the realisation that this time, there _was_ no other way.

Dean, being Dean, had insisted on terms. If he was saying yes then there had to be something specifically in it for him. Sam’s safety had been non-negotiable. What they’d not expected was Michael’s assurance that, should they be successful, he would return Dean to his brother to carry on their lives.

With Lucifer closing in, Dean had said yes.

They’d both cried when the time had come for goodbye, because despite Michael’s promise, they’d thought this was the end. Neither of them trusted Heaven to uphold their end of the bargain, because when had the angels ever shown anything other than self-interest? 

What they hadn’t known was, while the likes of Zachariah and Uriel had been using a range of underhand tactics to get Dean to say yes, Michael had been observing them and had begun to see Dean as something other than a strong and suitable vessel. He’d grown to like and then love the spiky, abrasive man-child, so damaged by his life, but still utterly devoted to the idea of family that when permission had finally been given, Michael had genuinely _wanted_ Dean to get something out of the arrangement.

The actual process of becoming Michael’s vessel had been over in seconds. Sam had wanted to know if it had hurt, if he then felt any different, but the truth was he felt exactly the same as he had moments before. 

Then Michael had spoken. 

At first he thought his eardrums would burst, but the angel had made the necessary adjustments once he’d realised the pain he was causing. After that, things were surprisingly ordinary. Dean was still Dean, in control of his own mind and body, but with an unseen passenger along for the ride.

It had taken Dean a while to get used to their conversations – at first he’d replied out loud, which had resulted in some seriously weird looks from both Sam and random strangers. Gradually he’d come to understand their telepathic connection and replied in kind. He still had to explain things for Sam’s benefit, like he was acting as a translator for someone who didn’t speak the language. He could tell Sam didn’t like it, but his brother kept quiet since he didn’t want to risk saying anything that might risk Dean’s life while an arch-angel was riding shotgun in his body.

When the time came to head to Stull, he’d pleaded with Sam to stay away. After several fights and even more fruitless pleas, Sam had climbed into the car beside him. Dean’s only victory in this mostly one-sided negotiation was that his brother had agreed to stay away from the actual cemetery when the grudge match was taking place on the basis that they’d _both_ be at risk if Dean and Michael couldn’t fully concentrate for fear of him becoming a casualty.

The born cynic in Dean had thought they had a snowball’s chance in Hell – ironic really, since they were going up against the Devil himself. Despite Michael’s reassurances to the contrary, he never imagined that he’d make it out of there alive, never imagined that he’d be standing in front of Sam again, with Lucifer safely back in the cage, never imagined in that moment that it would all become clear about what Sam truly meant to him. 

It transpired that things had played out exactly the way that destiny had intended. Sam had said no, Dean had said yes, leading the latter into a battle that he _could_ win. With Lucifer caged, life could return to normal, or as normal as _they_ could manage. Dean had assumed that Michael would return to Heaven, but the days and weeks passed and the archangel made no moves to go.

What surprised him most was that he didn’t _want_ Michael to go.

With the apocalypse averted they found themselves thrust into semi-retirement. Dean had always figured that he’d hate it since there were limited opportunities to die bloody in suburbia, unless of course you ran over yourself with your own lawnmower. There were still things out there for them to hunt, but it didn’t have the same sense of urgency that it once had and they started to get a little more selective with the jobs they took. 

Instead of driving to the other end of the country or heading onto the next hunt while one of them was still sick or injured, they simply phoned another hunter. When they worked a job that required them to stay in one place for a whole month, they rented an apartment rather than book into a motel. Although neither of them would have admitted it, the domesticity was actually quite appealing. 

So the hunts got fewer and the stays got longer. Although Dean was as happy with this arrangement as his brother, he harboured a growing anxiety that Sam might want to call time on The Life for good, which was something he wasn’t ready to consider. 

So Michael stayed and filled the gap that – in _his_ mind – Sam was forever on the verge of creating; a void that Dean knew would break his heart no matter how amicable the parting or how genuine the reason for Sam’s leaving. It was Michael he spoke to in the lonely hours, Michael he confessed his hopes and fears to, Michael who listened without judgement. Having Michael around was like having an older brother – something he’d obviously never had by virtue of being the eldest himself.

He knew Sam didn’t like it.

Sam told him constantly, _You can talk to me, okay?_ but there seemed to be this growing gulf between them the made the prospect of a heart to heart with Sam less and less likely. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was. 

_How can I?_ Dean had said to Michael one night after Sam had gone to bed. _I can tell there’s something going on with him._

_So ask him._

_You make it sound simple._

_It is. Ask him what he wants. Then maybe you’ll get your answer._

But he was too frightened to ask. It was easier to pretend that he might have it all wrong than know for definite, following the logic of ignorance is bliss. Only it _wasn’t_ bliss. Every day they grew further and further apart. There were no arguments or fights – just a gradual distancing that hurt just as much. 

Occasionally he’d catch Sam watching him with an expression of almost pain, yet his brother made no attempt to bridge the divide between them. Fear kept him from doing the same. 

OoOoO

They’d been in their current lodgings for three weeks when they’d finally located and destroyed the vampire nest that they’d been tracking. Despite the victory, they’d driven back to the apartment in silence. They’d pulled up outside, but neither had gone to get out of the car. The tension was cloying, a substance that needed to be washed off along with the dirt and vampire blood.

“I’m gonna go get us some dinner,” Dean said, glancing over at his brother. Sam gave a quick nod and the briefest of eye contact before he climbed out of the car and headed toward their apartment building. Dean watched him go, then threw the car into reverse. Since they hadn’t actually discussed what they were going to have, he decided on pizza. Beers were a given too, especially since their hunt had reached a successful conclusion.

Twenty minutes later, he guided the car back into the parking lot. His eyes automatically picked out the light in their living room window, but he couldn’t see Sam moving around. He locked up the car and headed inside.

“Gimme a hand will you?” he said, juggling keys, beers and two large pizzas, once he’d managed to let himself to their apartment. When he didn’t get a response, he looked round to see Sam sitting in the armchair. At his brother’s feet were several large bags and his duffel.

“Sam? What the hell’s goin’ on?”

His brother’s expression was guarded, but he looked as unhappy as Dean had ever seen him. Sam looked at him quickly before his gaze returned to his luggage.

“I’m leaving.”

“I can see that,” Dean said flatly, sliding the pizzas and the beers onto the table. “You wanna tell me why or should I just be grateful that you didn’t sneak off and leave me a ‘Dear John’ letter?”

Sam looked uncomfortable, like this was starting to go as badly as he’d imagined it would.

“I’m really sorry, Dean, but I can’t do this anymore.”

“This?”

“ _This._ Us. Hunting. I mean, we started hunting because we wanted to find the thing that killed mom. We _did_ that, and yet it didn’t end there. Now we’ve stopped the freakin’ apocalypse and we’re _still_ putting everyone else first.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean said, angry and yet clutching at the corners of his panic before it could fully take flight. “Tell me what you want and we’ll give that a try.”

“But that’s it,” Sam said quickly. “You can’t _give_ me what I want.”

“You want me to tell Michael to go, is that it? Jesus, Sam, I just don’t get what the problem is! I can be Michael’s vessel and still be your brother-”

“But I don’t _want_ a -” Sam began, then stopped abruptly. He closed his eyes, but didn’t say anything.

The silence that followed sat heavy between them. Sam’s hand moved to rest on the handle of his biggest bag, a clear indicator that he didn’t expect this conversation to go on much longer.

“So I guess this is it?” Dean said. “Where are you even gonna go?”

More awkwardness. “You remember Becky? I was at Stanford with her brother.”

“Shapeshifter Becky?”

“Yeah. She’s got a friend who was looking for someone to rent a room in her place. It’s in the right location.”

“Right location for _what?_ ” Dean asked, frustrated that he was obviously missing something.

“For school. I’ve managed to get a place starting in the fall. I’m gonna go and finish my studies.”

“To be a lawyer?”

“That’s the plan.”

Dean nodded. Everything Sam ever wanted and none of it involving him. 

“So, what does that mean for us? I mean, you’re not planning on complete radio silence like last time are you?”

Sam’s gaze shifted to the floor quickly, guilt and pain vying for prominence on his face. Dean, however, read it loud and clear.

“Oh, okay. I get it. Don’t want me cramping your style when you’re back at school?”

“Dean, no, it’s not that at all!” Sam said, so emphatically it was almost possible to believe him.

“Yeah? Well you wanna explain it to me then?”

“I... I can’t.”

That was that then. Despite the hurt and the urge to plead with Sam to stay, Dean turned and walked out. There was nothing he could say at this point when it was clear where his brother’s desires lay, so Dean did the obvious and headed to the nearest bar.

OoOoO

_You okay?_

Dean was already on his second beer when Michael spoke up. He was so used to this now, he didn’t flinch.

_Ain’t gonna lie. I can’t believe Sam’s done this to me. Again._

He studied the bottle between his fingers and shook his head. The bartender glanced up at him briefly, but didn’t say anything. 

_What the fuck am I gonna do now?_

He ducked his head, in case he couldn’t keep the devastation off his face. Sam, who’d been his world ever since he’d realised that another person could _be_ someone’s world. Sam, who clearly wanted a world that didn’t even _include_ Dean, let alone revolve around him.

_I’ll stay, as long as you want me, Dean._

_Thanks._

OoOoO

Despite his disbelief that he could go on without his brother, the weeks started to bleed into months. He hunted and drank and the void Sam left that he couldn’t fill with those things was filled by Michael. It wasn’t the same, but it wasn’t like he had other options. Since the day Sam had said he was leaving, they’d had no contact at all, save for a brief text to say he had arrived and was fine and did Dean want his address? Dean deleted it without replying.

What surprised him most was that the pain didn’t ease with the passage of time. It sat like a stone in his stomach, allowing life to be sustained, but blocking anything that might make that life _good_. Sam was the first thing on his mind when he woke and the last thing on his mind before he passed out drunk in the early hours.

He kept in contact with Bobby although his visits became more fractious and less frequent as a result. Bobby kept telling him he was too reckless, that he was ‘gonna get his fool head ripped off one of these days’; that he needed to grieve and move on. The old man was crazy, of course. Sam wasn’t _dead_ , so what was there to grieve?

Besides, he’d tried it Bobby’s way and it had gotten him nowhere. _Why don’t you try settling down?_ Bobby had said. _You won’t know if it’s for you unless you give it a try_. Just to prove the old bastard wrong, he’d gotten in the car and pointed it in the direction of Lisa Braeden’s house. It made no sense to go there – she’d been the bendiest of one night stands and the mother of a child who should really have been his – but there had never been any semblance of a relationship. Still, she’d opened the door to him and held him while he’d cried.

Naturally, she assumed Sam must have died. Why else would a guy she hadn’t seen for years show up, half out of his mind saying he had no idea where to go or what to do because his brother had gone? She’d taken him in and listened patiently and for a split second he thought this could work. Just as quickly, he knew he’d made a mistake coming here when he’d set her straight that Sam wasn’t dead and the sympathy in her eyes faded to a kind of pity.

Despite his reservations, he stayed. They started a life together and slowly he found it enough of a distraction to turn his thoughts from Sam. Then he had to explain about Michael and the pitying look returned. Even though she knew what his life entailed, it was obviously just a leap of faith too far to believe that her significant other shared a body with an archangel and conversed with him telepathically. Her reply had used the words ‘response to trauma’ and it was clear that she believed him to be mentally unwell. He knew she was toying with the idea of asking him to leave – she had a son to consider and he’d already made it clear that he wouldn’t entertain any kind of therapy, so he beat her to the punch and left before that conversation became necessary.

With no need for the social niceties required for human contact, the hunting and the drinking resumed. He stayed away from Bobby’s because he didn’t need anyone to point out how suicidally stupid he was acting. Besides, if he wanted company, he had Michael.

But the Sam-shaped hole remained, growing larger day by day. Periodically, Michael would suggest seeking Sam out and talking to him, and periodically he told Michael that he couldn’t. _Why?_ Michael would ask, but silence would always be the reply. 

Before he knew it, three years had gone by. He knew that Sam had passed the bar and was now a practising lawyer, but only because Bobby had told him before he could tell the old man that he didn’t want to know. In his whiskey-filled moments awash in self-loathing, he pictured his brother hard at work, razor-sharp intelligence helping him to make a name for himself in this new chapter of his life. He pictured Sam returning home to a beautiful wife and two beautiful children, all wavy hair and dark, sloping eyes and he carried on picturing them even when the pain of it was like a physical injury.

Early December he took a call from one of the few hunters who even bothered to try phoning him anymore. Like Dean, Cal had been in The Life all of _his_ life, but had managed to acquire a wife and a couple of kids, despite the day job. This was the reason for his call he explained, once Dean had stepped outside the bar where he was simultaneously killing his liver and his hearing.

“Given what we do, we’re lucky to still _be_ here for Christmas and I promised my ol’ lady that I’d make it home to be with the kids. But this werewolf thing is taking longer than I thought, so I figured-”

“You figured you’d call the one guy you know who’s got no place to be and nothing to lose to finish it off for you?”

“I’d appreciate it, if you’ve nothin’ else goin’ on.”

He didn’t, so he let Cal give him the details. Then he headed back into the bar to do a little more damage to his vital organs before he set off.

A lone werewolf – practically a milk run. Except this time it wasn’t. This time, he found the bastard and shot him, but the bullet only grazed a leg. So he gave chase – straight into the path of a speeding car. He remembered nothing of immediately afterwards, which was probably for the best. When he first regained consciousness he was expecting the police to want to speak to him, eager to know why he’d been chasing a guy and why he had a gun, but the interview never happened. 

He didn’t know that by the time the emergency services arrived, his gun - that had skittered thirty feet down the road when the car hit him - had been appropriated by an opportunistic thief. Unsurprisingly, the guy he’d been chasing had never come forward to make a complaint, so the matter was dropped.

Which would be great, except for the fact that in the contest of Dean Winchester versus the Buick Enclave, he’d come in a poor second. His left leg had taken the brunt of the impact, splitting skin and crushing bone. He’d been rushed into surgery and put back together with pins and plates, but when he was conscious enough for a discussion about the state of his health, the surgeon was extremely pessimistic about his recovery. His choice would almost certainly come down to this: amputation, or a life where pain meds would be a daily necessity and he would never walk without a cane. 

He opted for door number two.

He knew the surgeon thought he was just in denial about what his future might look like with a severely damaged leg, but that guy didn’t know that he had an angel on tap. An angel whom, as soon as he could get off the pain meds that were scrambling his thoughts, he’d get to heal his leg so that normal service could be resumed.

The week before Christmas, he called Bobby who came and sprung him from the hospital. He saw the look on the other man’s face, confirmation that he looked as shitty and wretched as he felt. Bobby drove them to his home, told him he’d made a bed up for him downstairs. He’d listened, nodding occasionally or making grunts that gave no real indication that he was either agreeing or disagreeing with whatever Bobby was saying, all the while telling himself that everything would be okay in a couple of days.

It wasn’t.

Even though he reduced the amount of pain meds he was taking, his requests and then pleas that Michael talk to him went completely unanswered. Without the meds, his leg was agony, a white hot and unrelenting pain that made him understand why the surgeon had talked of amputation. Bobby made his concern clear, but what could he say that wouldn’t make him look crazier than he already did?

Several days later, with still nothing from Michael, he set about gathering the ingredients to try to summon the angel instead. It was difficult to find everything he needed without alerting Bobby, but he managed it while the other man was busy in the junkyard. That evening, when Bobby announced he was going to town to pick something up, he knew it was the perfect time. 

Once Bobby had left, he let himself out of the house. The ingredients for the spell were in a small canvas bag jammed under one arm as he manoeuvred himself off the porch on his crutches. Tucked into his jeans at the small of his back was one of Bobby’s handguns. He told himself he’d taken it just in case. _The last act of a desperate man,_ his mind argued otherwise.

His leg was throbbing like a bitch, but he ignored it to limp his way as far from Bobby’s house as he could manage, eventually finding a spot between the towers of junkers where he wouldn’t be seen. A light drizzle had started to fall as he prepared the summoning ritual, but the flare lit just fine. He waited a beat after the light had burned out, but he was still on his own. 

“ _Come on, you son of a bitch!_ ” he yelled into the rain. “Where the fuck are you? You need to fix my leg because if I can’t hunt, then I’ve got _nothin’!_ ”

Nothing. No calming response that he’d grown so used to in times of stress before, no indication that everything would be okay.

“Where _are_ you, motherfucker?” His voice was growing hoarse and he was vaguely aware that the wetness on his face couldn’t all be blamed on the rain. “I gave up Sam for you, you bastard, and you’re gonna abandon me _now?_ ”

He collapsed into the dirt, weeping openly. The gun reminded him of its presence as it dug into his back.

“Dean.”

He looked up and frowned at the familiar figure now standing in front of him.

“ _Cas?_ What are you doin’ here?”

“I was worried about you.”

He sniffed loudly and swiped a hand across his face. “Yeah, well. I got injured on a hunt,” he said, gesturing to his casted leg. “Doctor said the best option would be to cut the leg off. I said no thanks, because I figured Michael would be able to fix it, since, you know, I did him a _big fucking favour and helped him save the world_ , but he’s gone all radio silence on me.” He studied Castiel for a moment before a thought occurred to him. “Hey, has Michael gone back to Heaven. Is that why he’s not answering me?”

The angel crouched down in front of him, trenchcoat trailing in the mud. “Dean. Michael returned to Heaven immediately after you defeated Lucifer.”

“ _Bullshit_.” He tapped the side of his head angrily. “He’s been here the whole damn time. _Years_ , Cas! Sam wanted me to cast him out, but I didn’t. I lost everything because Michael wanted to stay and now he goes and fucking abandons me when I need him the most.”

“Dean,” the angel said, more forcefully this time. “ _All_ the angels went back to Heaven after the final battle. True, Michael enjoyed the human contact he got while you were his vessel, but he knew that Heaven needed him, so he returned with the rest of us.”

“Then who the fuck have I been talking to?” he growled as his tears started afresh. He buried his head in his hands, because if Castiel was telling the truth then Lisa had been right on the money about the state of his mental health. “Great, so I’ve got a busted leg _and_ I’m crazy.”

“I can heal your leg-”

“Don’t fucking bother!” he yelled, even though he couldn’t even get up now without help. His anger deflated suddenly as his world collapsed around him. “I dunno who I was trying to kid; I was a dead man from the day Sam walked out anyway.”

He looked up when Castiel stood suddenly and stepped back from him. The angel’s expression was blank as his arms moved away from his body and his face turned toward the darkened sky. Dean watched in silence as Cas – the _true_ Cas – swirled up from his vessel’s mouth and disappeared into the night. Almost immediately, an identical beam of light shot downwards, striking the body of Jimmy Novak.

“Cas?”

Cas’s vessel seemed to wake suddenly. He smiled and shook his head.

“No.”

“ _Michael?_ ”

“You wanted to speak to me, Dean. I shouldn’t be away from Heaven, but as my former vessel I felt that I owed you as much.”

“What Cas said... is it true? Have you really not been with me since Stull?”

“No.”

He closed his eyes against the enormity of what it all meant. “I just don’t understand. I mean, Sam wanted you to go – he _left_ because I wouldn’t cast you out. Why would I still think you were a part of me if you weren’t even there?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Michael answered anyway. “Because keeping me around meant that you didn’t have to face up to certain things.”

He frowned. “What things?”

Cas – no – _Michael_ , smiled. “Your true feelings toward your brother.”

Dean stared at him, and just like that it all fell into place with crystal clarity – like finally looking at a person face to face rather than through the distorted reality of a camera lens. He remembered the rush of emotion when he’d seen Sam after the showdown with Lucifer; how certain he’d been that he would finally come clean about his feelings, regardless of the consequences; how a part of him had hoped that Sam might feel the same way. _After Michael’s gone_ , he’d told himself. _I’ll tell him after Michael’s gone._

But fear had kept ‘Michael’ in his head. Fear had convinced him that it was Sam quitting hunting that would be the worst thing that could happen to him. Fear had kept his thoughts and feelings locked away. 

“It’s too late,” he said, not realising at first that he’d even spoken out loud. “Besides, Sam doesn’t want to be around me, let alone... like that.”

Michael tipped his head to one side, the smile and the whole expression indicating that he had made a careful study of humans while he was down here. “Dean, are you sure you know why Sam wanted to go?”

All of a sudden he felt indescribably weary as he sat in the dirt. “No, because he wouldn’t tell me. Evidently you’re not the only one who enjoys giving me the run around.”

Michael laughed. 

“Anyway,” he continued, waving a hand dismissively. “Shouldn’t you be smiting me or something? I’ve basically just told that I have unbrotherly feelings toward my brother.”

“Dean,” Michael replied, his expression now serious. “Your life has never been ordinary; you’ve given so much – you and Sam – no one has any right to judge your feelings, even if they’re ones that other people can’t understand.”

“Yeah, well. Like I said, it’s too late now. From all accounts, Sam’s made a good life for himself. It’s not fair for me to go and ruin that, whatever his reason for leaving was.”

“Even if his reason was the same as your reason for keeping me around?”

Dean looked at the angel now, needing to be sure that what he was hearing was the truth.

“You mean...?”

“I mean, you need to go and talk to Sam.”

Michael looked up to the sky, as if someone had just spoken to him. He nodded in response to this silent communication. “I need to be going, Dean. I’m going to heal your leg as best I can, but it might not be as it was before.”

“Hey,” he replied raising his hands, his mind still trying to make sense of everything he’d just learned. “Any improvement works for me.”

The angel smiled and stepped toward him. “Farewell, Dean. I look forward to welcoming you to Heaven, but not for many, many years.”

He closed his eyes instinctively against the flash of light that accompanied Michael’s touch on his forehead. He opened them again to see Bobby running toward him, Michael now gone.

“Dean? _Dean!_ What the hell you doin’ out here, boy? You want pneumonia as well? I saw a flash of light too.” Bobby stopped and looked around, presumably expecting trouble. “You okay, Dean?”

“Yeah,” he replied, accepting Bobby’s outstretched hand to get him to his feet. Even though he was still wearing the cast, he put his full weight on his left leg and received the blessed confirmation that it didn’t cause him any pain. He studied Bobby’s face as he slung his crutches over his shoulder and grinned. “Yeah, I think I am.”

OoOoO

The coffee shop was part of Sam’s favourite chain. Dean figured he’d set up home in walking distance of one. After a brief description of what had taken place in the junkyard, Bobby had given him Sam’s address and he’d set off immediately. Eight straight hours of driving and ten minutes of working up the courage to knock at Sam’s door later and he’d been greeted by precisely nothing. He’d been about to knock again, determined not to take this as a bad omen, when the elderly lady who lived next door told him that Sam usually went out for coffee on a Sunday morning. He hadn’t even realised that it was the twenty-fourth until she wished him a Merry Christmas.

On foot, he followed her directions until he found the place he was looking for. To avoid succumbing to nerves, he thought about how fortunate he was to be making the journey unaided. He’d since discovered that Michael’s comment about healing him ‘as best he could’ was pretty accurate – his leg didn’t cause him any pain, but it was fairly stiff and didn’t respond well when he tried to run. Part of him wondered if that was deliberate on the archangel’s part – a way to encourage a different career path than hunting. Either way, he could live with it.

The Christmas lights flickered in the window of the coffee shop, framing the couple enjoying their morning lattes. He pushed open the door and went inside, the smell of fresh cinnamon hitting him instantly. His pulse raced as he scanned the shop. The front section was busy and for a moment he thought it was a bust because Sam wasn’t here. Then his eyes drifted toward the back of the store, to where there were comfy couches rather than tables and chairs. His heart lurched at the sight of a wavy head of hair, facing away from the rest of the shop.

Suddenly self-conscious, he moved to the counter where the barista was waiting to greet him, her short blond hair poking out from beneath a flashing Santa hat. He smiled back and quickly scanned the menu. Instantly he knew what Sam would have picked, so he ordered one of those too. Drinks made, he gave himself a final pep talk and headed to the back of the shop. As he drew closer, he could see that it was definitely Sam (in case he was in any doubt) and that his brother was engrossed in the morning paper.

“Figured you might want a refill.”

It wasn’t the smoothest of opening lines, but it had the desired effect. Sam spun around, his eyes going wide as he realised that his ears weren’t deceiving him.

“ _Dean!_ ” 

He felt a little awkward holding two cups of coffee, but the feeling disappeared in an instant when he was pulled into a firm hug.

“Whoah, Sammy, watch the goods,” he said, not sure whether he was referring to the coffees or himself.

The awkwardness returned as Sam pulled back to study him closely, because unlike his brother, he hadn’t spent the last three years taking good care of himself. Slightly embarrassed, he wished he’d brought a change of clothes or had a shave before he’d come, but if Sam felt any disapproval, then it didn’t show on his face.

“Oh, my God, Dean. You’re _here!_ ” The shock and elation disappeared as Sam’s expression sobered suddenly. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he replied quickly, making a gesture of placation despite the coffee cups. He swallowed hard. “You... you look good, Sammy.”

Sam’s worry softened into something warm and affection-filled. There was something else, too, in his eyes; that flicker of pain that Dean recognised from all those years ago when Sam had walked away. After everything Michael had said, the look now gave him hope, but either way he had to know.

“Uh, not that I don’t love this place, but can we go somewhere and talk?”

Sam, still sporting that stunned expression, nodded. He grabbed his jacket and followed Dean out of the shop. They’d walked most of the way back to Sam’s house before either of them spoke. It was only small talk, but it went some way to soothing his hammering heart.

When they arrived at the house, Sam let them in. It was comfortable, if sparsely furnished – a house rather than a home. As Sam went to put his jacket away, he glanced around quickly, looking for any signs that his brother might have truly moved on. He experienced another stab of hope at the lack of photos or possessions that might belong to a wife or partner. In one corner stood a small, sad looking Christmas tree – a half-hearted attempt to acknowledge the season.

“Hey, can I get you anything?” Sam asked as he re-entered the room.

“Uh, no – no thanks.” One look at Sam’s face and he knew that if he didn’t say it now he probably never would.

“Dean-”

“Sam-”

They shared an awkward laugh.

“I’m gonna go first,” he asserted before Sam’s eyes made him lose his train of thought completely. When Sam nodded, he took a deep breath and turned away in the vain hope that the lack of eye contact might make things easier.

“I need to say stuff, that I can’t believe I’m gonna say sober, but I’ve wasted too many years, Sam, so I’m just gonna come right out and say it.” Without meaning to, he’d spun back around to face Sam, like on some level he knew that he needed see how his words would be received. “I need you, Sam. Not as a hunting partner, or even a brother. I always knew you wanted something else from life, but I was afraid to encourage you, because I thought you’d end up going off and finding someone else – someone better. 

“And I’m sorry for that, I really am. You deserved a better life, Sam. But I know now that rather than holding you back, I should have wanted to be part of that life with you.”

“As?” Sam said cautiously.

“I dunno.” He rolled his eyes, like the next words were a personal affront to his manliness. “Your... partner, I guess?”

Sam cocked his head to one side. “You mean... like a boyfriend?”

“No!” he shot back, a little too quickly. “I... I just, _shit_ , I don’t know what it would make us, Sam. I just know that I don’t want there to be anyone else with that role in your life. Same goes for me, too. I don’t want anyone else – I never have. It’s fucked up I know, so I won’t blame you if you tell me to get out...” He stopped speaking when Sam caught hold of the front of his jacket. His brother’s eyes still held that warm affection, and now, a slight trace of amusement.

“It’s not the most romantic declaration of love that I’ve ever heard, but it’s good enough for me, Dean. I wanted you; I have for _years_ , but I thought you’d be disgusted and I couldn’t bear the thought of you hating me. I’m so sorry I left – I... I never could have imagined that you felt the same.”

He breathed out slowly, having forgotten that Sam was still in his personal space.

“So,” Sam said after a moment. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Fuck no!” he started to say, before his brain could engage. “I mean, no... thank you.”

Sam, however, was laughing. “How about we take things slowly, okay?”

Dean smiled in relief. “Slow works for me.”

Sam nodded, his expression still radiating his happiness at this turn of events. “Any plans for Christmas?”

“None.”

“Stay with me?”

Dean grinned, in that instant knowing that he’d never leave. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“You let me go out and get you a better tree.”

Sam laughed softly, eyeing the tragic festive arrangement in the corner of the room before he stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

Dean made like he was going to shake it, but instead used the purchase to pull his brother in for another hug. They stayed like that for several long moments. There would be more conversations to follow – Sam didn’t know about Michael being gone or that he had decided to turn his back on hunting, but it was clear that there would be time. For now he simply breathed in _Sam_ and allowed himself to believe that he was finally home. 

**End**


End file.
